


Lucidity

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Inception, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inception AU. Roy Mustang was one of the finest Extractors in the business until he broke ranks and left his old job behind. Now he and his trusted Architect, Riza Hawkeye, are risking their lives to undo their former employers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> with many thanks to perlaret!

When it comes down to it, not being able to dream anymore is a goddamn relief. People always talked about it in hushed tones, like it was some sort of penance. But not having to see those images on the inside of his head when he’s asleep is worth the bleary mornings and the brain fog. 

The shrill beep of a hotel alarm clock pierces his slow wave like an ice pick; Roy slams a hand down on it reflexively. The portentous red numbering reads 4:15 AM. He reaches over to rouse Hawkeye, but she’s already rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

“That time already, sir?” she asks, her voice still thick.

“You don’t have to keep calling me that,” he says automatically. It’s become something like a ritual, the reminder of what’s before them, and what behind. 

“Flight’s at six thirty, aren’t we cutting it awfully close?” she says when she glances at the clock.

“You always say that, and we’re always fine,” he says, but he rolls out of bed anyway. She’s already up, stretching the kinks from the cheap hotel pillow out of her neck; there’s an inch of her lower back showing where her shirt’s ridden up, and he glances away from her quickly. They haven’t survived nearly five years on the run by being careless. 

He slips on the gold ring that gleams innocuously on top of the alarm clock; it’s a surprisingly sturdy cover for being so predictable. Packing is shoving his change of clothes into his duffle and sweeping the remaining contents of the bedside table into his coat pocket. The ivory queen clinks against loose change that’ll be obsolete in a few hours. 

When he turns back around, Riza is fully dressed and just clipping her hair up; the danger has passed. 

“This kid better be worth it,” he mumbles in the elevator on the way down. Riza nods solemnly. 

It’s not the early morning flights or the nearly-permanent jetlag or the stress of going through security with false passports that has him grousing; those things have been part of his life for so long he barely notices them anymore. What lies heavy within him is the knowledge that if this doesn’t work out, they will be nearly out of options.

*

On the layover, Riza’s phone buzzes. When she reads the text, her face drains completely of colour; but then her eyes brighten and she says, “You’ll never guess what Rebecca just texted me.”

She grins as she passes him the phone; it’s too wide and sharp by far. _grl, u will never believe the gossip k just told me. brad & amy are making it official. hes putting a ring on it! july wedding probably! _

For a second, he can’t breathe; but he keeps his expression carefully neutral even as he fights for air. With effort, he cracks a broad smile and exclaims over the happy couple. Riza’s fingertips brush purposefully against his when she takes her phone back, but her expression is schooled once again to pleasant blankness. The touch steadies him, and only Roy can read the slight tightness around her eyes as anything more than an early morning.

_Kain unearthed Bradley’s contract. Production likely to start in July . Watch out, stay safe._

“That’s what, five months until the wedding?” he says evenly.

“At the outside. It’s hard to say at this point, though. I can’t say it’s really a surprise.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait for our invitations.”

Riza hums in agreement and turns back to her book. But she presses her leg hard against his. _I’m here_. He rests a hand on her knee for a moment. _I know_.

*

Prague gives him a headache. The narrow streets are too easy to get lost in, and too easy to lurk in. But then, the way he’s feeling, even Suburbia, USA would prickle with unseen dangers. Riza likes it even less; her watchfulness hums beside him under the veneer of a tourist’s gawking.

Their workspace is the dark little back room of a dark little bar; if Havoc says it’s safe, then it is. The owner nods at them as they make their way through the establishment. Jean’s already there when they arrive, fiddling with his phone; he doesn’t quite leap to his feet when they walk in, but it’s close.

“Oh thank God.”

“We’re not even late,” mutters Roy, flopping down in one of the spindly chairs as if he hasn’t been sitting on a plane for hours.

“Breda texted me with the news, I’m not gonna say it didn’t throw me.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t the only one,” Roy admits. 

“Where do you think it’ll be? Syria? Afghanistan again?”

“Nowhere, if we can help it,” says Hawkeye sharply. 

Havoc, suitably chastened, nods. 

“We knew it was coming some time. Now’s the time.” Roy shrugs with a nonchalance he absolutely does not feel. “So let’s not get distracted. Right now, we need a forger.” 

“Well, his train’s on schedule. Maria’s picking him up at the station.”

“That’s a good start.” 

Havoc makes tea; it’s cheap earl grey made in a coffee pot, but Roy lets it thaw the icy lump that had settled in his belly hours ago. Hawkeye doodles in her sketchbook, frowning in concentration.

Outside, there are raised voiced; instantly, the three of them are on alert. Havoc slips his pistol out of its holster; under the table, he nudges a briefcase toward Roy with his foot. Before Roy can bend to retrieve the weapons it contains, the door bursts open. 

The young man in the doorway mutters something in badly-accented Czech as he slams the door behind him. 

“Jesus, Edward,” says Roy. “We’re trying to keep a low profile here.” 

“Nice to see you too,” he says as he slings his backpack onto the table. “You could have warned the front door I was coming.”

“We thought you were on the late train,” says Havoc a little defensively. “Weren’t you on a job?”

“We split early,” says Edward in a tone that broadcasts _I don’t want to talk about it._ He looks rough--unkempt, with shinerish circles under his eyes and the faint smell of travel still clinging to him. Roy counts back to the last time he himself showered properly and winces. Ed favours his left leg on the few steps between the door and the nearest empty chair and fairly collapses into it. He rubs hard at his leg, but his face is expressionless.

“Well, you’re here now,” says Hawkeye, passing him a bottle of water and a travel pack of advil from her purse; Ed takes the water, but leaves the pills.

“You all look like you’ve either slept in a gutter or seen a ghost. That’s normal for you, Mustang, but--”

Riza interrupts him. “A production deal was signed. We’ve got a deadline now. Five months, maybe. “

“Shit,” he says around a mouthful of water.

“Yeah,” Roy agrees. “Your forger better be up to the job.”

Ed shrugs. “He’s who I would use. I mean, he’s an ass, but he’s good.” 

“Fortunately, a charming personality has never really been a requirement for working with us,” says Roy mildly. 

Ed probably misses the comment, because he doesn’t respond. He and Jean quickly fall into trading football gossip, which predictably morphs into sniping about each other’s teams. It makes for a pleasantly banal soundtrack as Roy works, skimming through the documents Kain has sent him. Beside him, Riza sketches, her idle lines turning into a twisting corkscrew staircase. Her hands are as steady as ever. 

The back of his neck itches and his fingers twitch; Roy channels the fidgeting into a flurry of emails. His eyes keep straying to the clock, the hands that seem to run too fast and too slow at once. The limit that looms distantly in his mind inflects the minutes with weight and meaning. It’ll wear off; the minutes will become just minutes again. But for now, each one is a held breath, an expectant pause.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with thanks to perlaret!

It’s nearing evening by the time the knock comes. They all startle, some more dramatically than others. Maria greets them with a sunny smile that makes Roy feel old. So too does the young man who follows behind her. Ed’s forger isn’t much older than Ed is, but his handshake is firm and steady all the same. 

“Ling Yao,” he says. He and Edward have worked together on a number of occasions, and the way Ed tells it, Ling is a self-assured bastard whose only saving grace is his unparalleled skill in forgery. There’s no trace of the flaws Ed so carefully enumerated in the young man standing before him, but he does have a forger’s watchful, shuttered gaze.

Maria ducks out to guard the door, but before she does, she catches Roy’s eye and nods minutely. Roy makes the introductions as they jam another chair awkwardly around the little table, his trepidation easing a little. “This is Jean Havoc, logistics, and Riza Hawkeye, our architect. Ed you know.”

“We’re acquainted,” says Ling mildly. Ed rolls his eyes but says nothing, and Roy thinks it’s definitely a milestone of personal growth for him. 

“Right,” he says, gesturing to the remaining seat. Ling folds himself elegantly into the chair. 

Havoc begins to ask after Ling’s journey, but Ling cuts him off with a raised hand, a little smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Please. It was fine, I’m fine, but I’ve been on a train for eight hours and I’d like to know whether it was worth it.”

Havoc snaps his lighter shut with a sharpness approaching irritation, but Roy laughs. “Fair enough,” he says. “I know it’s a bit cloak and dagger. How much do you know?”

Ling shrugs. “All Ed’s told me is that it’s complicated, and that there’s a nice price tag attached.”

Havoc turns to Ed with raised eyebrows, but Ed dismisses his concern with a wave of his hand. 

“It’s not really money we’re after.” Roy says delicately. “We’ll pay you, but the job itself won’t pay dividends.” 

Ling crosses his arms, but his face is impassive. “Right. As long as the cheque cashes, I don’t really care. Tell me about the part where it’s complicated.”

Havoc clears his throat. “Inception,” he says, fiddling with his lighter. 

Ling’s eyebrows creep up, but he leans forward all the same. “That is complicated,” he says, a note of appreciation in his voice, and Roy thinks that for all Ed’s reservations, his intuition was good. 

“It’s actually not that bad,” offers Ed. “It’s just emotional manipulation. The hard part is getting the opportunity and stabilizing the dream state. I’ve been working on a compound that--”

“We can discuss the technicalities later,” Roy interjects. “Some ideas are harder to incept than others. This is going to be a tricky one. Three levels, a sedative, the whole thing.”

Ling’s eyebrows are nearly to his hairline. “Right. Militarization?”

“Probably,” says Riza, unconcerned. What she means is _Most definitely_ , but there’s no sense in scaring him off just yet. 

Ling whistles. “I don’t know if _complicated_ really covers it. Suicidal, maybe.” His words are sharp, but he’s taut with interest under his artfully rumpled clothes. Some days it feels like half the industry is made up of kids, all of them rash and undisciplined and nearly impossible to work with; Ling, it seems, is foolish enough to listen but not impulsive enough to leap at the first offer of money and daring. Roy thinks he should have been so lucky in his youth.

“And yet you’re still sitting here,” says Ed, smirking. 

Amusement tugs at the corner of Ling’s mouth. “Fine. Call it my death drive.” He turns to Roy, his gaze shrewd. “But you still haven’t given me any information.”

”We need to know you can do it before we tell you what it is,” says Riza, a note of apology in her voice. 

Ling drums his fingers against his chin. “That old chestnut. Playing this one close, huh? Fair enough. But I need an assurance too.”

Roy waits. 

“I want an introduction to Olivier Armstrong,” says Ling.

Roy frowns, and Havoc’s eyes go comically wide. “How--?” Havoc says, and Roy knows he is frantically running back over the past six months in his head, looking for cracks. 

Their backers are meticulously careful about maintaining their distance; if the link’s been discovered, they’re all going to find themselves hung out to dry in very short order. Roy glances at Hawkeye; the line of her back has tensed. She sets her pencil and sketchbook down carefully and leans back in her chair, coiled and alert despite her casual posture. 

“Uh,” says Ed guiltily. 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ Edward, are you trying to get us all killed?” Havoc snaps. “What, did you put it on Facebook?”

“Oh calm down,” Ed bristles, “and don’t get your panties in such a twist. I’m not a fucking idiot. It came up.”

Roy pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s a pulsing headache building in his left temple. “How. How did it come up?”

Ling shrugs expansively. “I didn’t come all this way as a favour. I needed something I could use, and a connection to the Armstrongs I certainly can. It might be easier on all of us if you make the introductions though.” He follows the sentence with a smile, as if it wasn’t nearly a threat.

Roy sighs heavily. “I’ll see what I can do.” He can’t exactly fault the kid for looking out for himself, nor particularly Ed for doing what he had to, but it galls him all the same: they need Ling and he evidently knows it. But at least his allegiance costs more than just money.

“ _After_ the job,” Roy adds. “If I’m going to recommend you, I’d better know what I’m talking about.”

Ling purses his lips wrly, but he nods. “Fine. Fair enough. Now, shall we get on with it?” 

Havoc shakes his head as he sets up the PASIV, mumbling something about being overworked, underpaid and in need of a drink.

Roy fiddles with his cannula, eventually selecting a vein in the web between his thumb and forefinger; it’s one of the few places on his hands he can still get the needle in. The rest, though, is easy; the compound hits, and he’s gone.

*

The dream is Riza’s, all crisp lines and high windows. The room is somewhere between a library and a solarium; light pours in from the windows and spills over high white bookshelves. Potted plants cluster along the windowsills; there are always plants or flowers in Riza’s dreams. He’s never been able to figure it out; but perhaps she just likes them. They spend enough time in each other’s heads that searching out symbolism is a fool’s errand. He’ll leave her her flowers, and will happily call it a mystery.

A few of his projections move among the shelves, but they pay the four of them no need. Ed sprawls in one of the white modernist chairs in much the same manner as he had up in the work room. But here, his left leg ends just under the knee. 

“Didn’t bring your leg with you?” says Ling. It’s hard to tell if he’s teasing or not.

Ed glares. “Running around on it makes the phantom act up, and I’ve had more than enough of it this week. I’m trusting Mustang’s projections not to come after us at this particular moment.”

“Well, I promise to behave myself,” says Roy. Ling looks like he’s about to ask more questions, so Roy cuts in. “Now, Mr. Yao, let’s go for a walk and see what you can do.” 

“Don’t mind me,” says Ed. Roy plucks a book from the nearest shelf and passes it to him.

“Entertain yourself.”

Ed takes it like it’s a live snake. “This better not be a book of your weird sex fantasies.”

Roy grins. “I keep those up near the ceiling at the back, so you should be okay.”

“Even that is way too much information,” Ed says with a grimace.

Havoc laughs; Roy avoids looking at Riza. 

The four of them disperse into the bookshelves, slipping in amongst the projections. He wanders the shelves, trailing his fingers over the nameless books of his thoughts and memories. The projections mostly ignore him, but Roy studies them as he passes, looking for signs that one is a forgery.

Roy rounds a corner, and though it doesn’t surprise him anymore, it can’t, he still goes cold. Maes is rifling through a book, pushing his glasses up his nose as he scans the index. Above, Roy’s heart will be hammering in his chest. 

Maes looks up, a crooked grin blooming across his face. “Roy! Good to see you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, Hughes.” He should walk away, should leave this splinter of a memory behind. But he doesn’t.

“You know, the index to this book still isn’t complete,” says Hughes conversationally.

“I’m working on it,” he mutters. 

“The most important entry is still missing,” says Maes softly. “The last question still unanswered.” 

“I know. I’m almost there.” 

Maes meets his eyes. “I know you’ll figure it out, Roy. God knows once you set your mind to something, it’s just a matter of time.” Then, more softly. “I’m counting on you.”

Roy does not reach out to squeeze his shoulder; instead, he clenches his hand into a fist at his side. “Do you seriously think I would turn away from investigating your murder?”

He chuckles. “Not really, no. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you shit about it.”

“I really have to go, Maes,” he says with a sigh.

Hughes frowns. “Oh come on, stay for a bit. We never get to chat anymore.”

Roy swallows. “I’m a little short on time.”

The shade waves him off. “Fine, have it your way. But come by and talk sometime. You know where to find me.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He turns on his heel before Maes can say anything else. 

Roy keeps his steps steady and even as he walks away; there’s no use running. He schools his face to a careful composure; only Riza will read the his tells in the tightness at the corners of his mouth and eyes. 

When he turns into the next row of shelves, she’s walking toward him. It’s not his projection of her--that Riza has shorter hair; she looks a little like she did when they were younger. This is Riza today, with her strong shoulders and the stride of a woman who knows where she’s going. But still, she smiles a little when she sees him, and that’s not right at all.

“Nice try, Ling.”

A frown. “I’m not--”

Amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. “We’ve been together a long time. There’s no way you could fool me after meeting her for five minutes.”

Riza’s face in front of him wavers and resolves into Ling, who shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”

“It was a good one,” Roy allows. 

“I got Havoc for a bit there,” Ling says, not without pride. 

“You have the walk down. It’s the facial expression that gave you away.”

Ling rolls his shoulders. “It’s always the face. Hardest part of a forgery, every time.”

“Was I the last?”

Ling nods, so they make their way back to the centre of the library. Riza and Havoc are already there; she takes one look at him and frowns. The tilt of her head asks a question; Roy answers by dropping his gaze. There will be time enough later. 

“I hear he got you, Havoc,” he says, seating himself next to Riza. 

Jean rolls his eyes. “Only for a minute.”

“Still, one minute on five isn’t bad. And it was an audacious choice, trying to fool us with each other. God knows this job is as much audacity as skill.” 

“Gee, thanks,” says Ling dryly. 

He glances at Riza again, and she nods; it’s all he needs, all he’s ever needed. Ed shrugs, as if to say, _I told you so._

“You gonna explain this to me now?” asks Ling.

Riza’s the one who starts. “Have you heard of Amest Industries?” 

Ling frowns. “Sounds familiar. Aren’t they an arms manufacturer?” 

Riza nods. “They just signed a big production deal on a new prototype. The deal was orchestrated by a name named James Bradley.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have,” says Roy evenly. “He’s a spook. High up NATO type. Heads a bunch of spec ops task forces, that kind of thing.”

“Friend of yours, I’m guessing?” Ling’s glib facade doesn’t make his scrutiny any more comfortable, but the story has to get told sometime. 

“I--we--worked for him,” he says.

“So what happened? They screw you?”

Roy thinks of the shade wandering the stacks and is silent a long moment. “I was an extractor, Hawkeye was my architect. Our last assignment with Bradley was an extraction on a scientist working on nerve agents.” 

“We only found out later that Bradley wanted the information to weaponize it,” Hawkeye adds. 

Ling’s eyes widen, and his nonchalance cracks. “You mean like chemical weapons? Aren’t there laws against that?”

Edward barks out a laugh. “There are laws against a whole bunch of things.” 

“You really think they’re gonna use it though? I mean, nerve agents, that’s a whole other level.”

Roy glances at Hawkeye again; her face is utterly impassive. “It was tested about a year and a half ago. Basically wiped a village in Afghanistan off the map,” he says. “It got reported as an insurgent strike, but it was a test run. Full production is slated to start in July.”

Ling passes a hand over his face. “And let me guess, you plan to stop it? You weren’t kidding about the audacity.”

“Go big or go home,” says Havoc with a shrug. 

Ling looks like he might be considering it, actually. “Here I was thinking this was going to be a little light corporate espionage.” 

“Our backers have corporate interests in the the matter, but for us it’s a little more personal,” says Roy. 

“Yeah, I gathered that.” Ling looks like he wants to probe further, but thinks the better of it; the piercing look recedes into the smirking indifference Roy is quickly beginning to recognize. “So how in God’s name are you going to incept someone who sounds like a professional cold-hearted bastard into giving up a multi-billion dollar weapons deal?”

“He has a son,” answers Riza. “It’s not much, but it’s what we have to go on. If we can get to him through his son, we might have a shot of convincing him to dismantle it.”

“And that’s where you come in,” adds Roy. He peers hard at Ling. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.” It’s probably untrue, but Roy’s not going to press him on it. Hell, he still doesn’t know Edward’s exact age. 

“Well now you’re seventeen, and going to boarding school. That should give you three months to study Selim Bradley. Will that be enough?”

Ling nods. Roy is about to continue, but Riza looks up like someone has called her name.

“I think our time’s up,” she says, but the words are already fading; Roy’s answer splinters into the crevices of the dream, lost to the cracks of light already growing under his eyelids.

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with thanks to fromstars and perlaret!

They wake with the same breath. Hands immediately go to pockets, anxieties soothed as much by the ritual as by the contact with whatever mundane piece of reality they have chosen to carve out for themselves. Roy doesn’t bother. His totem is functionally useless anyway: nearly six months ago, some of Bradley’s men had discovered their safe house and they’d had to tear out in a hurry. Hawkeye had seized their totems from the bedside table, and he hasn’t yet gotten around to replacing his. She nudges his foot under the table; he nudges back, but does not look at her. 

Ling makes no outward sign of reaching for a totem--but these are private gestures, and his reticence is unsurprising. Beside him, Ed has his red monopoly house between his teeth as he types on his phone.

“You’re going to swallow that one day,” says Roy idly. Ed does not deign to respond. 

“Boarding school, eh?” says Ling, stretching his arms above his head.

Havoc flicks his lighter on and off, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips; he’s always insisted that the sensation of smoking is better than any physical totem. “It’ll take me a couple weeks to get the logistics sorted out,” he says, tapping the lighter against the table. 

Roy excuses himself, leaving them to hash out the particulars. He picks his way across the room to the single stall staff bathroom, shutting the door on their voices. 

The grout between the tiles has long since gone grey, and the stark fluorescent light makes the shadows on his face look deeper than they are. He dabs cold water on the back of his neck with a damp paper towel; it trickles down his shirt to settle in the small of his back. Like the floor and the light, he feels harsh, grey, thin; the dream is still sticky in his mouth and behind his eyes.

There’s a soft knock--it’s Riza. She enters without a word and leans against the door, her gaze in the mirror pinning him down. The bathroom is too small for the two of them and he can feel her warmth behind him. 

“And here I was doing so well,” he says ruefully. 

She softens; in the mirror, he sees one hand flutter at her side and then still. “You are,” she says quietly. “The news threw you, so he surfaced. I know you’ll get it back under control.” 

“You believe that?” His voice does not crack. 

“I have to,” she says simply. 

“Right.” Roy scrubs a hand over his face. Riza reaches out, decisively this time, and presses two fingers to the back of his neck where the skin is still damp. It makes him shiver in a way the cold water never could. She presses into his neck, massaging little circles in the knots where tension has accumulated. Her fingertips come to rest just over the first ridge of his spine; he meets her eyes in the mirror, reflecting back at her both her weariness and her will.

*

The hotels have long since blurred into one another, distinguishable only in the tiniest of details: a scuffed chair, curtains that don’t quite shut, a fraying hem on a pillowcase. This one has a worn spot on the carpet near the door.

Roy sits on the bed, the polyester of the bedspread scratches the backs of his legs. The sound of running water filters through the bathroom door. Riza’s shower is creeping past the ten minute mark. His skin itches in a way that means he’s tired and that he should brush his teeth, crawl under the ugly bedspread, and wait for the mattress to dip beside him.

But the water is still running. Riza is still in the shower, and if he goes in there now he’ll see the outline of her body through the fog on the door. Not even the years of familiarity or the glass between them will keep it from feeling intimate, and when she reaches for her towel, he will have to think of something to say.

He stares at the carpet, searching for words among the fading navy and burgundy pattern. The light on the floor changes, spilling out from the bathroom; Roy glances up as if startled. Riza’s hair curls wet over her shoulders and she clasps her towel tight to her chest as she rummages through her bag for clean clothes. She looks up, not at him but through him, and it’s almost a relief.

Something settles in her gaze, bringing her back to the present. Roy looks away hurriedly and lurches to his feet, muttering something about brushing his teeth. He has to pass her to get to the bathroom, and the citrus scent of the hotel shampoo still clings to her hair.

The steam in the bathroom carries the same smell, and the heat holds him like an embrace. Roy scrubs a hand hard over his face and wonders idly if hot water will make him feel better. He knows from experience that it won’t, but it’s nice to pretend for a moment that he has the option.

Riza’s drying her hair when he comes out. Her pyjamas have done nothing to soften her; tension still lives between her shoulder blades. She clicks the hotel hair dryer off, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“It’s been a long day,” he says. It’s a meagre offering at best, but it’s not as if he has anything more to give her.

She drags a hand through her hair, still a little damp, probably still smelling of oranges. “Yes. They’re a good team though. It’s the best chance we could hope to have.” She turns to him fully. “Not that it won’t be hard, still,” she adds meaningfully. 

Roy nods, murmuring his assent. Exhaustion has stripped her down, made her skin translucent. All that’s left is muscle and bone and resolve. He envies her sometimes for her clarity; but she’s not a windowpane for the light to shine through.

Carefully, he reaches out, resting two fingers lightly on the inside of her wrist. She looks down, as if her skin has surprised her. He imagines he can feel the blood moving there, under his fingertips. 

“I know,” he says softly. _I’m here_ , he says with his touch on the inside of her forearm. 

Riza meets his eyes; her tongue flickers out to wet her lips. The room has become very close around them; he traces little circles over her skin, not daring to touch her further but unwilling to pull away. Perhaps she leans into him, or perhaps it’s just an inhale, the expansion of her ribs. It makes him think of old cells, sloughed off and breathed in, and the very ordinary way they constitute each other. These cellular intimacies are all they allow themselves. But with her lips parted and her eyes fixed on his he thinks of the taste of her mouth and how her hair would feel through his fingers. 

She bites her lip (harder than he would) and looks away. The room appears again: the wide bed with its white sheets, the ugly carpet, the bedside lamp casting a golden glow over their bare feet. Roy drops his hand back to the safety of his side, but he can still feel her warmth beside him.

“I guess we should get some sleep,” he murmurs. She nods, the circles under her eyes speaking for her. 

Of course they won’t, but they climb carefully into bed and turn off the light anyway. Normally her warmth beside him is a comfort, but tonight memory lies between them in the bed, heavy and cold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with thanks to sceptickal!

They move to Lyon, if it can be called that. Moving implies a fixed place to go from, a life to put into boxes and take back out. Instead, they buy new clothes and matching linens, and open whatever boxes Havoc ships to them. To their neighbours it looks like a life: one where they leave for work in the morning and make dinner together in the evening, as if the days and weeks are not bearing them terribly onward. 

With three weeks to go, Edward shows up right on time. Roy waves him into the flat, taking Ed’s bags and asking jovially after his mother in a loud American accent. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Roy drops the cheerful host act, but he tugs the curtains shut just in case. Ed looks better rested than Roy can ever remember seeing him; there might even be colour in his cheeks.

“You take a vacation or something?” Roy says as he shows Ed to the spare bedroom. It’s not much bigger than a closet and has spent most of their occupancy as Riza’s workroom, but they’ve managed to jam a cot in with the desk.

“I was keeping my head down, like you said.” 

Roy looks at him with exaggerated shock. “Edward Elric did as he was told? I’m going to have a heart attack.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Besides, it’ll upset Hawkeye.” He shrugs. “I took a break from the game to spend a few weeks with Al. We’ve been refining the compound, I think you’ll like it.” Ed says he does his best work with his brother, always frames his visits in terms of work and research, but the affection in his voice is unmistakable. 

They make their way back to the little galley kitchen; Roy puts the kettle on. 

“How is Alphonse?” he asks, leaning against the counter.

Ed shrugs again, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s a day by day thing, you know? He’s been pretty good lately though; finally got a new ventilator, which helped.” He smiles, and a note of pride enters his voice. “Just finished his first round of correspondence courses. Did really well on ‘em too.”

Roy chuckles. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” Ed’s a prodigy, but his younger brother is possibly even more gifted. He shakes his head. The Elric boys should be studying at university and getting into teenage scrapes; not conspiring in a kitchen rented under layers of false identification. It’s yet another item on the long list of things Bradley and his associates have to answer for. But Ed would hit him if he thought Roy was pitying him, and maybe Roy would deserve it.

The kettle whistles; while the tea steeps, Roy rummages around under the sink until he finds the toolbox. Lifting out the false bottom, he retrieves the neatly folded drawings and spreads them over the table. 

“She’s been working on them for weeks.” He places the mugs in the few square inches of space left on the table, careful not to set them on the drawings. 

“Yeah, it shows.” Ed studies the mazes curiously, tracing out the paths with his fingertips. “Are these the finals?”

“No. She hasn’t written the finals down. She’ll go over yours with you later. But you can start with this,” he says, pushing the topmost paper towards Ed. It’s his level of the dream, a sprawling maze Roy has been careful not to study overmuch.

Ed raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Playing it safe, huh?”

“Now’s really not the time to get sloppy.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” He fixes Roy with a gaze that is far too knowing for his years. “Wouldn’t want anyone bringing any uninvited guests along.” 

Roy puts his mug down harder than strictly necessary. “That was ages ago.” Of course, the incident had not ended well for any of them, particularly Ed, and Roy cannot entirely blame him for his caution. “It’s under control.” 

He sighs heavily. “Besides, I’m hardly the only one. Go that deep and everyone’s shit comes out. Sometimes it’s shades, sometimes it isn’t.”

Ed looks away, rolling the monopoly house between his fingers. 

“We deal in the subconscious; it’s raw emotion, all that Freudian sex and death crap.” Roy sips his tea.

Ed’s gaze snaps up to him, narrowing into a glare. “I don’t need a lecture on dreamwork. I’ve been in the business long enough. Don’t treat me like a kid.”

_You are a kid,_ Roy wants to say. Instead, he asks, “You still dream?” 

Ed shrugs, but he curls his hand into a fist, the little red house safe at the centre. “Sometimes.” Something dark flits over his face. “I have to say, the fire is getting pretty old.” he says softly. 

The official police report said that it was a gas leak, and that there had been no survivors; neither of those things were true. Nine months after leaving England, he found himself back there again, working to spirit two desperately injured boys out of the country, because it was high time someone survived. Their father had been a talented scientist, and the Elric brothers were already well versed in dream chemistry, and prodigies besides. It had been a natural thing to ask if they wanted to help him. Ed had said yes before he even got the end of the sentence out; any guilt Roy had felt over his age was dispelled when he met Ed’s eyes and saw him look alive for the first time. 

“I won’t say it gets better,” says Roy, “but I don’t miss dreaming.” He sets the dregs of his tea on the table. “I dunno. Maybe it serves a purpose. It needs to go somewhere.”

“Shades or nightmares. What a choice,” says Ed bitterly. 

Roy drums his fingers on the tabletop; the faint rings of previous cups tell the story of the table’s history. “Either way, you live with it.” 

From down the hall, Roy hears the clunk of the old lock and a familiar tread on the creaky floorboards. Riza makes her way into the kitchen, laden with groceries. She murmurs a greeting to them as Roy takes the bags from her. Ed jumps up to help, though Roy notes he no longer blushes when he greets her.

*

The internet connection is a bit shaky; it takes Ed twenty minutes, three texts from Kain and a judicious smack of his laptop to get the secure connection reasonably functional. Roy obligingly turns things off and on again until Edward is satisfied, and tries not to let his amusement show.

Alphonse’s face flickers to life on Ed’s computer screen. It’s been some time since Roy’s seen him and while he’s as pale as ever, his eyes are bright and his face has lost some of its adolescent roundness; he’ll have a strong jaw when he’s older. A plastic cannula loops around his face and rests in his nose, but he doesn’t appear to notice it. Al waves hello to Roy with a grin that is still boyish.

“Hello, Mr. Mustang!”

“Hello, Mr. Elric,” Roy says with mock seriousness. “Congratulations on your university classes.”

Al grins sheepishly. “Thanks. Ed’s been bragging again, hasn’t he?”

“Don’t look at me,” says Ed. “He asked how you were doing, so the fact that you’re kicking ass came up naturally.”

Al rolls his eyes, and Roy hides a smile in a sip of tea. He first met the boys when they were little better than children, with eyes hard from grief and injuries straight out of a war zone. He won’t take credit for the young men they’ve become; but he will smile, and be proud of them, and hope. 

“Ed tells me you’ve been working on a new compound.”

The grin lights up Al’s face again. “Yes! We’ve been working on it. The addition of a sedative is always tricky, but--”

Roy has never had a head for the chemical technicalities of dreamwork, but the Elrics both have an interest bordering on the vociferous. It makes their arguments on the matter rather colourful.

“I’m telling you Al, four levels is possible, it’s just stabilizing it--”

“You’d have to be practically in a coma!”

“A _light_ coma, don’t be dramatic about it.” 

Roy clears his throat meaningfully, drawing the brothers up short. “Gentlemen, I appreciate your pursuit of science, but given the circumstances, I’d rather not experiment with comas.” Or with four levels, if he’s being honest. Even if they could keep the dream from disintegrating entirely, the possibility of maintaining control at that depth is frighteningly remote. 

Al nods sagely. “Of course.”

“It’s really more a possible direction for future research,” says Ed, sprawling out on the sofa. 

“Be careful,” he cautions them unnecessarily; it’s a reflex, born out of a misplaced paternalism and an old guilt for the times he should have been cautious, and wasn’t. Some emotions are harder to control than others.

Ed dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Roy was a young man once too, and says nothing more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with thanks to perlaret!

Ten days out is cutting it rather fine, but gathering in the same city is dangerous; meeting in the same room, even more so. Their workspace this time is an old storage locker in a thoroughly miserable industrial park an hour and a half outside Geneva. The door sticks as Roy shoulders it open, waving Riza and Ed through with a little bow more suited to fancy restaurants than musty lockers. It’s full of the detritus of someone else’s life: the old couch has bright streaks of red marker on one arm, and what look to be claw markings decorating the back. 

Breda’s just setting up the last of the chairs; he greets them with a mock salute. They are the last to arrive; perhaps it’s the light, but the faces around the room seem bloodless and weary. Havoc especially looks thin and worn, his eyes deeply shadowed and his rakish grin drooping somewhat at the edges. Roy claps him on the shoulder in silent thanks for his efforts; Jean perks up a little under the gesture, unpacking the PASIV with a flourish. 

Ed presses a vial into his hand. “Use this. We might as well test it.”

Ling eyes the solution cautiously, but says nothing. 

It burns a little on injection, but the pain quickly mutes and fades as Roy opens his eyes in the dream. Edward has the top level; he’s dreamed them a warehouse with hard cement floors and glass walls. Outside, the sky too is the grey of of cement. 

Ling rubs at his wrist where the cannula is in the waking world, and frowns. 

“Geez, Ed, you could have warned us.”

“It’s the sedative,” Ed huffs. “You’re fine, there’s no need to whine about it.”

“I wasn’t whining, I was pointing out--”

“Gentlemen,” Riza cuts in, “perhaps we could test it out, and see what you’ve brought us, Ling.” She graces them with a smile that cuts short their dispute. 

Ling’s chest puffs out a little. “Yeah, sure.” He rolls his neck, makes a series of very strange faces, and mutters something under his breath. 

His body wavers, as if it’s for a moment undecided; two images are transposed on top of one another, and it makes Roy’s eyes ache. He glances away, and when he looks back, Selim Bradley is standing there in his school uniform. Roy’s only met the boy on a handful of occasions, and years ago at that; still, the tilt of his head seems familiar. 

He walks up to Riza and offers her his pudgy child’s hand. “Hello, pleased to meet you miss. My name is Selim.”

Riza crouches down to child height and shakes his hand with gravity. “Hello Selim. My name is Riza. We’ve met before, but it was a long time ago, when you were little.” 

“Oh! Do you know my father?” Riza nods. Selim enthuses at some length about his father; were it a real child, Riza might smile along and ask questions. As it is, she crouches and watches, her face blank. Selim’s childish enthusiasms are tempered here and there with moments of gravity: a little furrow of his brows, a glance at him or Riza to gauge their reactions. These little stutters of anxiety pinch sharply at the parts of him that still remember looking up to Bradley, and this is how Roy knows the forgery is masterful.

“Good,” he says sharply. “Let’s see if you can keep it up deeper. Bradley’s own projection should take over, but in case it doesn’t, we’re going to need you.”

Selim nods, Ling’s gesture uncanny on a child’s body.

They fold the dreamspace in on itself like a blanket, sinking into its crevices. The second level is Havoc’s; it’s edgy, a bland hotel lobby full of sharp corners and high shadows. Roy nearly trips on the stairs. 

“Jesus, Havoc, go to a spa or something. I’m gonna choke on your anxiety.”

“You know the wind up is always worse than the day of,” Jean grouses. Adrenaline gives Havoc’s dreams clarity and steadiness that had surprised Roy the first time. Still, Jean closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply, and it seems the shadows become a little less dense. 

They wander the halls, startling when the thick carpet gives way to hard marble and their footsteps ring out to the ceiling. The projections have hard eyes and tense shoulders Still, Ling’s Selim holds here, though his manner now is touched with the nervousness that has seeped into all of them. 

Riza holds the third level; she’s always the deepest. It’s a boardwalk today, and the sea heaves against the breakers; but still, they’ll hold. Roy gazes out over the flux and swell of the waves; the light refracting from the water seems almost brittle. The high blue of the sky is the same colour it was the day Maes died; the ordinariness of it had become imbued with meaning. The salt on the air settles heavy on his tongue.It tastes of a memory of Riza: of the night nearly three years ago he’d gotten down on his knees for her and she’d cradled his head between her thighs as he licked her; the tenderness with which she’d said his name as she climaxed had sounded as a warning to them both. He wants to wade into the ocean and let the salt water drown him. 

“Sir?” Riza’s voice draws him back to the present. The wind whips her hair about like a banner: bright gold, warlike. Strain shows deeply around her eyes. 

“Sorry.” He shakes his head and tries to turn his mind from the tide that is pulling at him.

The only thing that remains of Selim Bradley is the uniform; Ling scrubs a hand over his face and grips the worn wood banister of the boardwalk until his knuckles turn white. 

“You ever been down this far?” 

He shakes his head. “I can’t--”

“Yeah. It’s like that.” Roy takes a deep breath, willing the pitch and roll of memories within him to stillness. “Try to focus.” He says it as much to himself as to Ling. 

“We shouldn’t be here long” says Riza

“Small mercies,” Ling mutters.

In the crowd on the beach, Roy thinks he sees a familiar dark head; he turns away with fear in his throat. He closes his will around himself like a fist, narrowing his focus to the dream, the moment’s small task.

It’s raining when they wake to the warehouse; Roy startles, fumbling into his empty pockets reflexively. 

“Top level,” Ed reminds them. 

Ling mutters something in Cantonese that sounds like a curse. Roy’s mind still feels distant; salt-stained and tossed by the wind. 

“How’d it go?” asks Ed, leaning back in his chair so it balances on two legs. 

“Well. The forgery holds up admirably at depth.” Riza’s voice is a little thin, but it doesn’t waver.

Ling frowns. “Not all the way down, though--I couldn’t hold it.” 

“If Bradley’s own projection doesn’t take over at that point, we’re screwed either way,” says Roy. 

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Havoc mutters. 

Roy looks hard at Ling, who is quiet and grave. “You don’t need to come all the way down with us. I want you to stay on the second floor with Havoc.” 

The young man bristles. “I can do it, I just--”

Roy hold up a hand. “No, it was my mistake. I never should have asked you in the first place. Three deep is hard even if you’re used to it. Stay with Havoc and run interference if you have to.“ He glances at Riza, who nods ever so slightly. “Hawkeye and I will take the third level alone.” 

Ling doesn’t seem entirely happy about it, but he acquiesces with a silent nod. 

“The forgery is good, but it’s not enough.” Ling frowns, but Roy cuts him off. “We need to be careful with the tenor. Havoc, Edward, you need to watch the ambiance. Otherwise we’ll have security down our throats before we can even get to the second level.”

A roll of thunder rattles the glass walls. 

“Edward?” asks Riza cautiously.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters. 

Roy frowns. “Not with three levels and a sedative, it isn’t. If you--any of you, for that matter--have something to say, now’s the time. I’m not taking a jaunt to limbo because someone decided to stew on their issues.”

The legs of Edward’s chair hit the floor with a sharp thud. “I just don’t get it, that’s all.”

Roy waits.

“I mean, it doesn’t bother you at all? He’s a heartless murdering bastard.” The colour in Ed’s cheeks is high, his rage thick in the air. “Instead of giving him what he deserves, you’re taking him on a nice little jaunt with his son.” 

In the breath after the outburst, there is only the sound of the rain. Roy is distantly aware that his hands have gone cold where they grip the arms of his chair. 

“And what, exactly, does he deserve?” Roy asks very quietly.

Edward is silent, but his glare speaks for him.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost things to Bradley, Edward. And you won’t be the last.”

“Neither are you,” Ed snaps.

Roy stiffens. “I am aware,” he says tersely. Then, softer: “I know he doesn’t deserve it. But if anything is going to change, we need to change his mind.”

Ed is silent a long moment; the thunder rolls again, but more distantly. Ed sags in his chair. “I still don’t like it.”

“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to live with it.” Roy stares them down each in turn. “That goes for all of you. We’ve come too far to turn back now.” Riza raises an eyebrow when he looks at her, as if to say, _Do you even have to ask?_

“Follow orders, keep your heads down and don’t die. “

Havoc’s mouth quirks, and he throws a mocking salute. “What inspirational words, boss.” 

“I was saving the big inspirational speech for the day of, I don’t want--”

_\--to wear it out_. The rest of the sentence dries up as Roy opens his eyes. 

“Everybody all right?” Breda asks, and is met with a chorus of variously bleary mumbles. 

He’s poured glasses of water for all of them; Roy downs his greedily. Ed’s the first to his feet; he bums a cigarette from Havoc and ducks out the door, one hand buried in his pocket. Breda glances at Roy, who shakes his head minutely: _Leave him alone._

The ivory queen is cool in his palm, the chip in its base worn smooth and familiar. Riza, already standing, offers him a hand up. The callouses on her fingertips are the map to a country he knows well; when she drops his hand, the sudden absence is like the start of waking. 

In the car on the way back, Ed is all knees and silence in the back seat, his head resting against the window. 

“You did well, Edward,” says Riza, her eyes never wavering from the road. “Your dreams are becoming much more stable.” 

Ed snorts, but he mutters a thanks. But Riza is right; time was that rainstorm would have drowned them all. 

She meets Ed’s eyes in the rearview. “I know how you feel, Edward.” she says gently, but it’s a gentleness born of deep resolve. “And there are a handful of people who managed to survive the test site who might agree with you”

His eyes widen and he sits up. “I don’t--I didn’t mean--”

“I know you didn’t.” A sad smile touches the corner of her mouth. “But it’s never just been about us. Any of us.”

“I know,” Ed says softly. 

“We could kill him, but it wouldn’t do any good.” She says it very flatly, and Ed startles at her pragmatism. “The deal would still go through. If we want to help anyone, I believe this is our best chance.” 

Ed nods gravely, the light coming back into his eyes; she has that effect on people. “That’s what you wanted.”

“It’s what got us here in the first place.” Riza shakes her head at their youthful foolishness. “You know what they say about good intentions. But it was very seductive. Dreamwork is a bit more glamorous and exciting than designing green hospitals and office buildings.” 

She leaves out the fact that Roy was the one who approached her, who strolled back into her life after years of absence, alight with possibilities; perhaps it’s an act of kindness. 

The car is silent a long moment, filled only with the white noise of the engine. “We thought we were doing the right thing the first time, and yet here we are. Perhaps this is another mistake, but at least it’s something.” 

“I don’t think it’s a mistake,” says Ed. “For whatever that’s worth.”

Some of the sadness is gone from her mouth when she smiles. “A great deal.”

Ed still looks discomfited, picking at his cuticles. After a moment’s silence, he says, “I don’t--I didn’t mean what I said in the dream. That’s not who I want to be.” When he looks up, some of the youth has fallen from his face, replaced with resolve. “I’m not going to become like that, like him. Even if sometimes it feels--” he trails off, gesturing expansively. 

Roy twists around in his seat. “I know.” He sighs heavily. “The hard part about having principles is that they don’t always match up to our impulses.” He licks his lips, the memory of the sea breeze still in his mouth. “Rarely do, in fact.”

The rest of the ride passes in relative quiet. Roy resists the urge to overburden Edward with instructions and advice. When they drop him off, he claps Roy on the shoulder and mimes tipping a hat to Riza. 

“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

Ed fades into the bustle of the intersection, quickly becoming another backpacking teenager gawking at the sights. 

“That was well done,” Roy says. “Thank you.” Whether he means for Edward’s sake or for his own, he’s not quite sure. 

Riza nods; she’s sure, she always is.

*

Sleeping the night before a job always seems a little redundant. Roy makes the effort for the sake of routine, but their safe house doesn’t have air conditioning and June is already sweltering under a heat wave.

It’s around three when he finally gives up. He slips out of bed with as little noise as possible, though the bedsprings are old and creaky. Riza shifts, but otherwise makes no sign. They don’t really need to sleep in the same bed when they have a whole house and no cover to keep; but they have been adrift so long that any sense of familiarity is as good as a place to go home to. 

He pads downstairs for a glass of water that ends up being lukewarm and metallic tasting. Riza’s computer is still on the kitchen table, but he thinks the better of turning it on; there’s nothing he can do at this point but worry, and he promised her he wouldn’t. Instead, he looks out the window at the sleepy streetlight pooling on the asphalt. 

Her footstep sounds behind him, but he doesn’t turn. “Sorry I woke you,” he murmurs to the window. 

“You didn’t.“ She takes his water glass from him and drains the end of it. 

“I guess we’ll need a nap tomorrow.” It’s not even approaching funny, but she graces him with a quirk of her lips anyway. 

When she returns his empty glass to him, their fingers brush, and it is only out of practice that he doesn’t shiver at the contact. 

“I swear I’m not worrying.”

“I didn’t think you were,” The night casts high shadows on her face. Were it anyone else, he might attempt an inspirational speech, but those words ran dry between them a long time ago. Necessity has them by the throat; it would be foolish to pretend otherwise. 

“Five years,” he says, shaking his head. “To be honest, I half expected to end up dead in a ditch six months out.”

“We still could,” she says mildly, as if the idea doesn’t concern her overmuch. 

“Don’t.” It comes out sharper than he intended, and her eyes widen in surprise. He drops his eyes, gazing into his empty glass as if he is scrying for the future. “Just--promise me you won’t.” 

She smoothes her thumb over the back of his hand and he starts, looking back up at her; she’s gone soft at the mouth and eyes. “I promise,” she says quietly. 

They both know very well it’s not a promise she can keep; but she twines her fingers in his and squeezes, like she intends to. He squeezes back, as if to hold her to it, to hold her. 

In the end, the dawn comes quickly.


End file.
